


A Little Old Fashioned

by theheartchoice



Series: DeanCas Codas | Season 14 [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adorable Dean Winchester, Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Angelic Grace, Bingo, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Caring Castiel (Supernatural), Castiel Heals Dean Winchester, Coda, Dean is so tired he's practically drunk and he's drunk on the essence of Angel, Doctor Castiel (Supernatural), Episode: s14e13 Lebanon, Feels, Ficlet, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Grace Kiss, Guardian Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), No Spoilers, One Word Prompts, POV Dean Winchester, Post-Episode: s14e13 Lebanon, SPN One Word Bingo, Soft Dean Winchester, Tending to Wounds, Tired Dean Winchester, fatigue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-11-05 14:04:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17920214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theheartchoice/pseuds/theheartchoice
Summary: Coda set after 14x13.Cas tends to Dean's wounds.This coda also fills a square for mySPN One Word Bingocard:word:TIE





	A Little Old Fashioned

**Author's Note:**

> Not much to do with the plot of the episode. I was just craving some fluffed-up hurt/comfort for these two beautiful boys.
> 
> Inspired by [this post-ep Destiel fanart](https://thefriendlypigeon.tumblr.com/post/182809079479/dean-who-did-this-to-you-it-was-you-cas) by the awesomely talented _thefriendlypigeon_ on tumblr.

“You're not alright.”

It hadn't been a question but Dean had answered it anyway. “I'm fine, Cas.”

He wasn't. Not on the outside or the inside. But he has no doubt that he _could_ be fine by now, at least in one regard.  
  
Dean could've let Cas heal him, maybe then let himself be eased into a dreamless sleep to wake the next day well-rested and without a post-brawl headache.  
  
Cas had offered― _of course_ he had offered, damn-near _insisted_ ―and Dean had seen the need in his eyes to make this _right_. Though It's been a while, knowing the contusions mottling Dean's face and coloring his ribs were caused by Cas' own hands..? It wrangled a painfully familiar look on his friend's face―wounded and worried and wracked with stupid guilt―that Dean felt a similarly pained need to fix.  
  
He could've allowed Cas to unburden that guilt clearly weighing on him by taking the easy way out―for _both_ of them. _Guilt_ , which is ridiculous because _none_ of what happened was Cas’ fault. But he's always been protective like that, always willing to shoulder the blame for things beyond his control, beyond his own doing.  
  
_It's that Guardian part of him_ , Dean thinks, _he feels like he's failed us―failed_ **_me_** _, like our―_ ** _my_ ** _wellbeing is his never-ending responsibility_. And doesn't that just churn Dean's insides like two currents warring against each other: to be someone's burden; to be deserving of such care. Because he's not blind to it, he sees Cas treat him differently from Sam. Dare he say.. _softer_.  
  
But he didn't refuse Cas' grace because he didn't want his help, or because he felt deserving of the beat down he received. This time, after everything that's happened over the past twenty seven hours, Dean just needed a little bit of old fashioned _**T.L.C**. _  
  
No more magic. Just booze and bandages and the steady hands of an old friend.  
  
Hands which are now securing the compress around his ribs. Dean fails to hold back a wince―but it's not from the contact; Cas' hands are warm. Soft yet firm, broad palms and nimble fingers. His touch is grounding, yet delicate in a way Dean tries hard to convince himself he actually deserves (but nonetheless revels in).  
  
Cas steps away to ready the swab for his knuckles and Dean lets his clean shirt drop back down (dark fabric, to hide any trace of red that might seep through the bandages). He takes another sip of the good whiskey to swill round his mouth. He can't really taste it, just likes the burn and the way it smooths over his palet to numb everything in its wake.

Left hand petting down his thigh, soft clean flannel a welcome sensation (a nice distraction), Dean watches as Cas takes that same hand in his ( _gently_ ), lifting it to the lamplight to inspect the damage.

Another welcome distraction.  
  
He watches as Cas dabs that pungent, old-timey antiseptic over the dried blood of each abrasion; as he takes care not to press on the wounds with each gentle swipe of the cotton bud. The iodine is cool against his split skin; smells like sour oranges, jarring and unpleasant, but Dean breathes deep anyway.  
  
On the inhale, he catches a rain-fresh scent diluted by dusty roads. It permeates the air well enough to rise above the foul medicinal smell, and he feels a smile form without need for a thought, let alone a command.  
  
It's familiar. It's the bearing of home even when the bunker―and, at times, the mortal plane itself―is an entire world away.  
  
As it is, Dean _is_ home. He's propped up on the map table in the early hours of the morning, dawn probably not far off. It's been a long-ass day and he didn't trust his legs to keep him up, so he lets them hang over the edge from where his butt is firmly planted by the Cape of Good Hope.  
  
The purple of the continents is brighter than the hue settling in across his knuckles; probably his neck and face, too. He knows that sight (coupled with the involuntary twitches of pain Dean’s body insists on making to remind him it requires special attention) probably erks Cas, somewhat―knowing they could both be done with this by now.

But Cas didn’t protest against Dean’s want for the old fashioned treatment. And he doesn’t complain about it taking longer or being far more tedious.. or being reliant on even _more_ time spent together―up close―tending to battle wounds.

The soft backlight glow of the map casts an almost romantic feel over their makeshift medbay.  
  
Cas has the resident first-aid kit open beside him; has readied silver dishes, now filled with a mess of blood-stained sponges and cleaning alcohol. He has everything he needs to tend to Dean's wounds, and he's taking his sweet time to do it.  
  
Methodical, careful, as one might think any Angel would be.  
  
Not that Cas is just _any_ old Angel.  
  
And not that Dean is complaining about their extended time together, fatigue be damned.

He can see it working for Cas, too: helping Dean is helping to purge all that misplaced guilt and second-hand pain he carries for Dean's injuries.

This isn’t just about mending Dean's body with a simple touch. This isn’t just about Dean.  
  
Angelic Grace may be one helluva pick-me-up―fast and _more than_ effective―but there's just something about this kind of prolonged close proximity and corporeal care that does a little extra to help with the pain, for both of them.

    
When it comes time to tend to his face, Dean doesn't hesitate: his knees shift open on a reflex to make room for Cas between them; he can reach both cheeks from this new angle and he won't have to move around Dean to get to the medkit.  
  
Eyes slipping shut, Dean lets go a long, tired sigh, exhaustion settling deep.. He feels at ease. Safe. He feels Cas move in closer; the cold sweep of iodine across his left cheekbone, sour oranges ripe in his nostrils.. cool touch to his right eyebrow.. his hairline.. It does sting, but it seems his body has now reached that level of fatigue where it’s too tired to even flinch.  
  
So tired, it seems, that it tilts a little too far forward as Cas retreats, trying to occupy the space where his friend had been; Dean should probably lay down, but _leaning_ is also good, so.. why not?

He grabs hold of the table's ledge to stop the fall―jerks to a more alert state of consciousness; eyes still heavy as he blinks but heart racing enough to keep them open, aware, and―  
  
―and Cas has him by the shoulders, is holding him steady. _He's always good like that_.  
  
Maybe Dean should've sat in the chair, had some _thing_ to lean on. Why didn't he do that..? Why was he sitting up on the table..? It’s not really comfortable, and the pocket of chill beneath it is undoing the blood-warming-good his shower had done, leg muscles twitching to get away from the cold..  
  
..But now there's a palm against his jaw, cradling it; a thumb ghosting over the tiny cuts flecking his stubble. Cas is so close, and _so warm_. And ( _again_ ) there's no need for thought.  
  
Dean lets his head fall to rest on Cas. The immediate temptation to snake his arms beneath coat and jacket to eliminate all space between their bodies suddenly seems like the greatest idea since the invention of those oversized trenchcoats, way-back-when. The chill will sneak in there, is all. And that's no good. It's always coldest just before dawn, and dawn is nearing to break soon. Neither of them should be cold.  
  
And he never did put much stock in any of those dime-a-dozen old sayings, but maybe there's one Dean can get behind: _great minds think alike_.  
  
Or, _great arms move alike_ , at least.  
  
Cas encircles him. Dean's not sure who moved first, but his own arms have found their way around Cas' waist; right where he wanted them to be. It happened without memory, a wish come true in a slow, surreal blink; no thought needed, just a feeling.  
  
There's a warm weight around his shoulders, measured breaths tickling the back of his neck. Cas smells like sunshine after a rainstorm and the air of the open road.  
  
“..Glad you're _you_.”  
  
The words mumble into Cas' chest, but Dean knows he can hear them.  
  
Cas murmurs back into his hair.

“..Whoever I am, I am because I met _you_ , Dean.” His words are as warm as his body; they feel like a lullaby. “You helped me want to be better.”  
  
Dean's not convinced he deserves that sort of credit, but he can't be blamed for snuggling closer anyway, for burying his face in Cas' blood-free button-up. Just like he can't be blamed for pulling Cas in with his arms, his legs.. embracing his likeness to a full-body pillow. _Maybe it's the feathers_ , Dean muses idly, _Angel feathers must be so soft.. comfy pillow-fluffers_.. _and_ ―..  
  
.. _bouncy pillow?_  
  
He pulls away just enough to look up; hands shifting to rest on hips; heel notched behind knee; sole of one foot sliding down the slope of a firm calf..

..Cas is _right there_ , and he's smiling.

Dean feels his own face pull into a frown―justified, because he's confused, maybe a little annoyed; he missed the joke. It is _pretty_ , though. A _smiling_ Cas is _always_ pretty―even when it's a _smirk_ , because smirks are _sexy_.  
  
And he's bouncing again―Cas is _laughing_. And suddenly the lost-joke doesn’t matter at all.  
  
“You're _giggly_.” And it's _beautiful_ , and Dean's frown upturns into a smile of his own.  
  
“And you're tired, Dean.”  
  
_No argument 'ere._

And there's a hand combing through the hair behind his ear. He leans into the touch, bobs his head―just once, and just barely―in response so as not to lose any more energy through movement or forming of words. He has just enough left to instruct his body to tip forward again and resume position as a koala-bear, wrapped around his Angel.  
  
“Dean..”  
  
“.. _Mmmhm_..”  
  
A warm touch along the exposed side of his face, another on the opposite shoulder, and in the process of a slow exhale.. space appears between them before Dean can even think to open his eyes.

He does though―slowly, again―and finds Cas looking down at him, regarding him with something like fondness― _must_ be fondness; Cas is fond of Dean, he _knows_ this―blue eyes catching the golden light of the antique lamp, reflecting it back at him. Not hard, though, not like a mirror. More like water, like pools of water both ancient and new, refreshing and sunwarmed, inviting the kind of swim where he could happily drown, but knows he never would.

Somehow, he just _knows_.  
  
It's a remarkable feat, too, the fact that Dean's still sitting upright, that he hasn't toppled over to curl up on the table or let his body slip over the edge and pour itself into a puddle on the floor like it wants to. His muscles feel like liquid, ready to settle.

Cas is still close, still hugged by Dean's thighs, loose as they are. And it's as he reaches back to the medkit―Dean's eyes following that arm extending, that suddenly traitorous hand that has left his face in favor of something _way less important_ , he's sure―his own hand comes into view: it's holding onto Cas’ tie, helping Dean keep his balance.

An idea tries to bubble up that maybe he's hurting Cas and should let go. But another one, a better one, knocks that bubble back into the abyss before it has the chance to surface. The better idea floats casually by and it's a nice reminder: _Cas is strong_.

But Dean's not a total ass. He'd rather go Dutch than get a free meal, which is why his other hand is back to bracing the table's edge.

One hand on Cas, one elsewhere. Both places provide support but only one offers comfort, too.

And seeing as how both of Cas’ hands are now back on Dean, it almost seems unfair not to return the favor..

Sour oranges waft back into his nostrils and it's déjà vu: cool sweep across left cheekbone, right eyebrow, his hairline.. History is repeating, and confusion stumbles sleepily through his mind to loosen his hold, hand slipping down Cas’ tie to the wider end. Dean's gaze is drawn passed the deep blue in his grasp to the not-so-white of Cas’ everclean dress-shirt.

 _‘Least ts'not blood_ , he thinks.

He tries to focus, eyes fuzzy: no, not red, but orange. Surprisingly vibrant smears of it across Cas’ chest, darker smudges either side of his buttons. If Dean squinted―which, okay, maybe he already _is_ ―it might look like the imprint of a face―like the face of someone who decided to wipe themselves clean on the nearest absorbable surface.

Like Cas’ shirt.

And it's _Dean's_ face.

He'll have to soak it to get the stains out. It's the least he can do.

Somewhere in the background of consciousness he knows there's one wound left―one Cas didn't get to the first time around. Dean hadn't been keen on the bitter taste of iodine. The sense memory of it sneaking past his split lip to accost his taste buds had made him _shudder_ ―or it would have, if he had the energy for it. But he didn't want it then and he wants it even less, now.

Maybe it shows on his face―although he's not really sure _how_ since his face feels just as loose as the rest of him, as every part of him that's not the bare minimum grasping at _table_ and _Cas_ , trying to keep from falling―because Cas has stilled.

A broad hand frames the marred side of Dean's face ( _again_ ), and that familiar warmth returns.

It's not magic. It's not Angelic. It's just _Castiel_.

The swab is gone. The scent of iodine has faded, as if far away (and not rising up from the little silver dish right beside him).

And Cas _knows_.

He knows Dean didn't want it, somehow. Maybe he read his mind. Maybe he didn't have to.

Cas’ thumb is closer than before: tracing down through Dean's stubble but edging at his lip, this time. Dean feels an urge well up that's neither surprising nor new. He recognises what it _is_ , despite being unable to decipher what it _means_ ―and not just because his head is currently filled with clouds. He also couldn't say it―if he could even find a name for it―if he even wanted to.

Maybe he doesn't need to.

The pad of that thumb sweeps just under the hardened cut in Dean's bottom lip―which feels about ten times bigger beneath Cas’ touch, his gaze; Dean feels exposed, but in a good way. Worn out and wounded, but not weak.

There's trust and then there's care; there's fondness and then there's intimacy. Cas’ focus is solely and completely on him―intent and adoring, and it's all of the above.

It's a helluva look, and Dean's heart swells with that nameless sensation―it threatens to bust down the levee and overflow through his entire being, filling him up from the inside out.

Cas’ eyes seem imploring, bright and sad and _so damn beautiful_ ―it's too much to bear. Dean's chin dips down, eyes on the tie between his fingers, lips meeting that thumb in a soft press like it's the most natural thing in the world.

 _‘Natural’.. yeah, sounds ‘bout right.. Feels more natural n’ better than most things do―n’ so damn_ **_rare_** _, it ain't fair.. ‘ts never fair.._

His chin tilts back up―but not of its own accord, and sure as hell not because Dean moved it. Thumb drawn down off of Dean's lip, the strong fingers belonging to that same hand―such a _good hand_ , with the _caring touch_ ―now guide his face towards the light (dim as it may be, but no less helpful to illuminate darker things).

Cas is closer than before ( _closer than ever_ ).

The shadows of the bunker curl around his features only to be swept away by the soft golden light nearby. In this light―in _any_ light―Cas is beautiful ( _always so goddamn gorgeous and too damn kind for his own damn good_ ). And there's a word, like that nameless feeling has found itself in letters, still jumbled in Dean's mind―but _right there_ , within reach. It's the only word that really fits―and he _wants_ to say it; wants to tell Cas so he knows it too. Because.. what if he doesn't?

What if, even after all this time, after everything, he still _doesn't know_ because Dean never managed to say it? Well..

..Now seems as good a time as any.

Cas deserves to know.

Dean's lips try to form the words, hands holding onto _Cas_ and _table_ , trying to keep the world steady enough for long enough to voice them.

But that's the thing about shared moments like this―the ones that time stands still for while space suspends you, and if you lose your balance you'll fall through the clouds to land smack-bang on the cold hard ground, lost and alone and tossed out of your own special happening―if you take too long, someone else will talk first, move first, and you gotta hope you haven't missed your window, that they won't say or do something to throw you off balance and send you flying, falling, moment done and dusted, whether they meant to push you out of it, or not.

Cas’ lips part and there are words ready and loaded, Dean can tell―and he still can't manage to get his own in order, to beat Cas to the talk. Because what if it's not what he wants to hear? 

_..Well, what else in't new, huh?.. Why mess w’th th’ same-old, same-old?.. Why try t’ fight it?.. S’me things won't ev’r change, can't change.. Not like you des’rve any better, ‘nyways.._

But Cas doesn't speak.

He moves.

 _Lips_ move, without talking.

They brush against Dean's own, sandwich them in a delicate and delicious and wild sensation: hot and cold and light and heavy― _heady_ in the _best goddamned way_ ―and he can feel himself falling, flying, holding onto Cas to keep from getting lost, pulls him in with every part of him― _screw the cold hard table_ ―tie in-hand and waist in-arm and legs finding unknown strength to draw Cas’ body in, pressed together at the edge of the table, edge of the world, edge of everything.

It's happening: he's overflowing from the inside-out―and it's terrifying.

And he'll gladly drown in it.

In _Cas_.

Fear is an old friend. Dean doesn't give a shit to end this moment any sooner than it'll last―and he hopes to hell and back that it lasts forever (even though he knows―somewhere, underneath it all―that that won't happen; can't happen). He fears this moment's end more than anything right now, but since when does life give a shit about his suffering, or what he wants?

The kiss ends, and it happens too soon (Dean _knows_ it's too soon―it wasn't done _being_ ; he wasn't done _swimming, breathing underwater_ ).

Cas pulls back―lips caressing one last goodbye as they leave his own ( _alone_ ).

Dean can't bear to open his eyes. He can feel Cas still tangled in his embrace; doesn't want to blink awake and find the moment over, dispelled like some cruel illusion. He doesn't want to watch Cas move away from him (it'll hurt enough to _feel_ him go― _it always hurt_..).

But then―just as before―Cas surprises him with his movements.

Cas doesn’t leave. He stays close―hand still settled over Dean's old scar, fingers still curled gently about his chin, body still pressed against Dean's. The only notable difference is the terrible lack of his lips on Dean ( _anywhere would do_ ). But Cas is close; he stayed, and Dean's breathing him in like a miracle, like he's both the sensation flooding through him and the _Kiss Of Life_ as he breaches the surface.

“..Dean?”

The time for words must be now.

“Dean..”

.. _Can't ignore ‘im forev’r, g'nius_..

There's a gentle stroke beneath his bottom lip―now freshly swollen from their kiss.

Cas just _kissed_ him.

“You kissed me.”

“I―.. healed your lip.”

Dean's tongue pokes out to test that. _You heal me every goddamn day_ he doesn't say, but, “Do I gotta be wounded for you to do that again?”

“You.. want me, to..?”

“Yes.”

Easy question.

The clouds have parted in his mind and it's clear blue skies all around (for now). No other answer in sight but that one. No other answer he'd rather give. And the word that was jumbled there before is written just as clear as the view. 

But maybe he still needs to make that undeniably clear; he hasn't quite  _said_ it, but he doesn't want to jumble the meaning with speech. Words can wait. Dean's more a man of action  anyway, and now feels like the time to follow through with some moves of his own.

Dean lures Cas’ back within kissing reach, urging him forward with a small tug of his tie.

It's only now Dean realises that first kiss was rather chaste: no tongue. And yet, for all its intensity, it ranks up there with the best kisses of his life―ones that can't ever be replicated, no matter who they were with.

Cas is almost level with him. For the height of the table, he hadn't needed to bend down at all. Dean sits taller, now, lips level. With one hand still around Cas’ waist―and wholly unwilling to surrender its place―the other gives up the tie to move up.. up.. up broad chest and over heart.. passed collar to find neck and stubble, lips meeting again somewhere along the way.

“Sorry, mine don't come with fancy healin’ powers,” he murmurs onto Cas’ lips.

“I beg to differ.”

“Oh, I'll make you beg.”

There's a smile exchanged in their third kiss―the third of many to come.

  
Dean could be fine by now.

But he'd much rather take the pain if it comes with a side of good old fashioned comfort and care. He'll take the lumps and the bruises and the whole range of aches, if it means having the company of his friend through it all.  
  
Well.. 'friend' isn't the right word. It's less-than what Cas is―and 'family' isn't the whole story, either (see exhibits A and B: _The Kiss_ and _The Kiss: Reprise_ ). Dean knows the right word, now. He can see it. He'll say it.   
  
In any case, Cas may have healed his outside but his inside still needs work, and he knows Cas can help with that, too (he already is helping, has been all along, healing Dean in more ways than one). 

And by the smile graced onto Dean’s very lips, the one alight in Cas' eyes, Dean must be doing something right, something to help him in return, in thanks, in.. more ways than one.

No, Dean isn't ‘fine’. That word has lost all real meaning over the years. He has a better word to replace it. He's on his way towards something _else_ , something _more_ ―and he's not alone, he knows that now. 

Yeah.

Dean is better than fine.

   

**Author's Note:**

> ♡ also [on tumblr](https://theheartchoice.tumblr.com/post/187071302573/a-little-old-fashioned-cv-coda-14x13) ♡
> 
> * * *
> 
> Unfortunately, the official Tumblr + Ao3 Collection associated with the **Spn One Word Bingo** have been deleted. But there still remains those of us who choose to continue creating for our cards! You can find our fills on Tumblr via the **#**[SPNOneWordBingo](https://www.tumblr.com/tagged/spnonewordbingo) tag, and right here on Ao3 under the [spnonewordbingo](https://archiveofourown.org/tags/spnonewordbingo/works) tag as well.


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